Blood Lust: Kefka's Story
by dilly2
Summary: *REVISED* The experiments drove him insane. After a lifetime of trouble squeezed into seventeen years, his mother's death, his father's beatings, unrequited love... the Empire that he gave up his childhood for drove him insane.
1. Prologue

I know how it happened, but it doesn't make any since to me. I guess I'm insane, that's what they tell me. They call me a beast, a monster. At least they did...when they were alive. I'm glad they're dead. I guess that proves what they said about me. But if I am a monster, it's their fault. I didn't start out as one, I don't think. Maybe somewhere in me I'm still not one, but when I start trying to think before I do something or try and stop myself while I'm doing it, it doesn't work anymore. Something stopped in my head. They gave me a taste of something and now I want more and more. They thought these little drips and drops could actually quaff this terrible thirst. It's like a vampire feeding off of wine instead of blood, it doesn't work. Wine's not bad, don't get me wrong, but it's the realness of blood. It's the actual killing that makes blood so special. You are taking something that is vital to both you and someone else. That someone else pays dearly and you go on with your life with nothing but a full belly and a little piece of guilt. So, you go on drinking and gathering pieces of guilt, and one day you just have too much guilt and you stand out in the sun or get yourself staked because you've got to get rid of this guilt somehow. The question is...what if you don't feel the guilt? What if it doesn't affect you? I think that's what they took out of me when they put in the Magitek. There wasn't enough room for that emotion anymore and it's not particularly important at first glance. In fact, it wouldn't have been a problem if they hadn't given me a sip of power, my own blood to feed upon. There is no way to gain power without stepping on someone, and the more power, the more people you have to step on.

Wait, I'm going too fast. Maybe I should start at the beginning instead of the middle. I should have thought of it first but it seemed too logical. Stories start at the beginning for a reason though, and my father might actually be a rather large part of this puzzle. 


	2. Childhood

Father was tall. Much taller than I ever was or ever will be. When I drew him, in little scribbles as children will sometimes create to give their mother or teacher, he stood well above my mother and I and everything else, including the house. Mother would always get this sad smile on her face when she looked at those pictures. I never knew just why. Mother was small. She had these tiny little hands that seemed to do so much. Cook, clean, build whatever we needed around the house, she would provide. My clothing was hand stitched by her. Always these dark colors, navy, black, gray. She always tied my hair back in a neat little tail. I didn't play with the other little boys. I was special. 

Ghestal came to the house when I was born. I don't remember this of course, but I was told about it several times. He informed my parents, who were, at the time, very poor and destitute, that if they would sell their little boy to him he would pay them handsomely. They refused at first, but he informed them that they would be able to keep me through my early years and would only have to give me up to them when I was of the age of twelve, and even then they would be allowed visits every day and I the child would be well cared for. Not to mention the boy would have a chance at a very high rank. They agreed to it. It seemed quite a fair deal. He did not tell them what would be done to me. 

Ghestal visited the house often in my youth. He was much younger then, of course, and sometimes I would notice him looking at my mother strangely sometimes when my father wasn't there. I didn't understand it at that age. I didn't know why my mother would blush when he would say something very quietly to her. I didn't understand why they would leave me to play by myself while they 'cleaned the bedroom'. I only knew that they never did this when father was around.

One day, I asked him.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Kefka?"

"Why does Mommy act funny when Mister Ghestal is here?"

"What do you mean?"

"He looks at her funny and her face turns all red, and then sometimes they leave me all alone to go clean the bedroom."

My father stared at me for a moment. His eyebrows slowly met in the middle of his forehead like they always did when he was very mad at me. I took a step back, afraid that I had done something naughty and not knowing what that could possibly be. He hit me, hard, in the face. I tumbled backwards. I was six years old and it was the first of many beatings I would receive from him. He was screaming at me and telling me not to talk that way about my mother.

I think it was the next day, when Ghestal came over. There was a knock on the door, and I answered it. Mother had been sleeping all morning so I figured she must be sick. He looked down at me.

"Hello, little Kefka. What are you doing up so early? And with your hair all messy." He put his hand on my head and rubbed my head a little.

He stepped in and past me, leaving me to close the door. I followed his heels into the living room. He looked around, and into the kitchen. Then, he turned back to me.

"Where is your mother?"

"I think she's sick or something. She didn't get up this morning."

He knelt down in front of me and took hold of my face.

"What happened to your eye, Kefka?"

I turned the bruise away from him, "I fell down."

"Well, you've got to be more careful with that face, little one, that face might be very important to you some day. A leader's got to look like a leader." He smiled, it was quite a charming thing at the time. It got less so as he grew older, "Now you go check on your mother ok?"

I nodded and scurried into her room. I didn't like being alone with Ghestal. He frightened me.

I swung the door to my parent's room open. I looked in the bed and she wasn't there. It was neatly made, the sheets totally smooth, the pillows fluffed perfectly.

"Mommy?" I whispered into the early morning darkness. I searched to room with squinted eyes. There was a strange shadow in the corner. It looked like my mother standing there, but she looked taller. I took a step toward her. The sun found it's way above the horizon, as if knowing I needed the light. The golden pink light fell on her. Her eyes wide, her tongue hanging sideways from her mouth, bloated and purple, her neck red and black and brown where the rope had broken it and chaffed it. I stared at her hanging there for a moment, not understanding fully. Something finally clicked in me and I screamed. 


	3. Another Piece

My childhood ended at that moment. It is rare, perhaps, that a six year old is an adult, but I can think of no other word to use for my state of mind. I didn't cry when they buried my mother, but I did cry when my father beat me that night. He kept repeating that I had driven her to kill herself, that I had said bad things about her and shamed her so much that she couldn't bear it. When he was done he threw me in a closet and told me to think about what I had done. He left me there for a week I think. He took me out once a day only to beat me again. I begged him for food on what I think was the third day and he beat me more.

These days turned into years. He didn't always throw me in the closet; sometimes it was just a beating. They would last for hours sometimes. Ghestal didn't come by anymore. Sometimes I wished he would, I thought maybe he would protect me from my father. The only thing, however, that saved me from him was his job. He worked ridiculously long hours for little pay, but it was enough to support us, and the habit of stuffing his veins with drugs he had acquired. As I grew older I learned something. I learned that pain could be ignored. Pain is only physical after all. I began to go out when father was at work or too messed up to know what was going on. I just walked through town at all hours of the day and night. I didn't know anyone because Mother and Ghestal didn't like me going out, but that had been when going out had been more dangerous than staying inside. Some people had heard about my mother's death and looked at me with pity, knowing my face from a few brief encounters attached to my mother's side. I looked different though, and some of them didn't recognize me. I was older by three years. My eyes were dark and my hair was never tied back neatly anymore, always in a loose tail that I had thrown it into on my way out the door. My cloths were starting to get old and small in the years after her death, but father did not notice and did not replace them. I had to beg clothing off of merchants or sew two outfits together to make a new one.

It was on one of these outings that I met her. I was walking with my eyes to the pavement and she was running through the street crying and we ran into each other, toppled and rolled onto the street. I didn't see the carriage coming, but thankfully the girl did and she grabbed me and dragged me out of the way just as it clattered by. We sat panting for a long while. I looked up at her when the shock wore off. Her hair was a tangled blonde mess, very short for a girl's, her little outfit consisting of shorts and a tank top was smudged with dust from the road, her eyes were strange and stained with red, her cheeks wet. I held down the urge to laugh at her knowing I must look equally ridiculous.

"Are you alright...um...girl?"

She took a deep breath and nodded, "Yeah, I'm okay. How about you?"

"I'm fine." I began to vehemently wipe off my cloths with my hands, scared of what Mother would say when she saw me before realizing that she wouldn't see me. The girl stood up and held out her hand to me, "I'm Celes, who are you?" I took her hand and she pulled me up with surprising strength. "My name's Kefka." "That's a weird name," she looked me over, "but it kinda fits you."

"How?"

"I dunno."

"Why were you running around like that, crying."

Her cheeks turned red and she turned away. "I was not crying!"

"Yes, you were."

She flung herself back around and slapped me hard on the face. I didn't flinch. She blinked at me.

"You can't act like that didn't hurt!"

"It didn't."

Her face got even redder and she slapped me again, using all of her strength, which was more than a girl of her age should have. Still, I didn't feel it, it was nothing compared to my father's fist.

"Why are you just standing there?! Shouldn't you yell at me or something? Or hit back or...or..."

"Why would I want to hit you?"

"I-I..." She got the most hilarious look of confusion on her face, her eyebrow raised, her lips contorted into a strange sneer.

"So, why were you crying?"

"I wasn't! I..." She took a deep sigh that seemed to deflate her. "My parents told me that in a few years they're going to...to...."

"To...?"

"To sell me! They told me there was this guy that came when I was born and they were really poor and he offered them all of this money." Tears started trickling out of her eyes again and she promptly wiped them away.

"The man's name was Ghestal?" 

Her eyes got wide, "How did you know?"

"I'm to be sold as well."

"Wow...really? Doesn't it make you sad?"

"No. I hate my house...and my father."

"Oh...well, I want to stay at home. I don't want to go live with some man I don't know!"

"How old are you?"

"Eight."

I wanted to talk more with her. Something about her made me want to know her better... but Father would be home soon and if I didn't get back before him, I'd be in the closet for a very long time. Perhaps we would meet again when we worked for Ghestal.

"Um, I've got to go! Nice meeting you." She opened her mouth to say something, but I ran off at full speed toward my house. 

---------------------------------

Before you ask, yes I do know the age difference between Celes and Kefka. Just be patient. You'll see. 


End file.
